Page 169 of The Pirate Queen

Grace stands. “Father,” she says. “Stop. You’ve no right. You—”

MacKenna takes a step toward her, arm raised, stick ready to strike her across the face.

“Unus rex,” Richard begins, then stands as well and moves between MacKenna and Grace. “Una fides, una lex. One God, one faith, one law. Is there anything else, Father?”

The priest spits out between gritted teeth, “Write. It.”

It is painful to watch. Richard also uses his right hand during these lessons and he struggles even more than Grace. His wrist is bent at an odd angle, his fingers too, and the letters might as well be drawn in the mud by a child for all their awkwardness.

The young O’Flaherty laughs. “Fecking useless,” he mutters.

“All of you. Write your family motto again. In Latin,” MacKenna orders.

Donal flinches as if he is the one who has been struck, but he picks up his chalk and begins a careful transcription. The rest of them follow suit.

Even with her right hand, Grace finishes first.

Powerful by land—her father has many hundreds of fighting men. And more from Scotland, the Gallowglass, when he goes to fetch them. Powerful by sea as well. Grace once heard her father say that he could count on one hand the number of seafaring families in Ireland. She is proud to be part of that legacy.

Grace is startled when MacKenna moves on from his lesson and into a lecture. The tone of his voice changes, becomes impassioned. Color rises in his pale narrow face. Those straight blunt brows draw together.

“You might think it silly,” the priest says, “that you’re forced into learning these letters. But they become words. Then missives. Donal, you will write to your fellow chieftains. You will be a leader one day. Same with the both of you—” He motions to Richard and O’Flaherty. Then MacKenna looks at Grace. Looks but doesn’t see. “And you, Gráinne, you will have a house to manage one day. The buying and selling of goods will fall to you. So you must know what your accounts say. You must be prepared.”

Grace O’Malley, second-born and only legitimate child of The O’Malley, smiles sweetly at her tutor.

No, she thinks. I want to be powerful by land and sea.

She is spitting mad. Mad at this stupid boy and his stupid games. Mad that her dress is filthy and her boots are dusty and that she has a bloody nose. Again.

Richard caught her unaware when she entered the byre to collect the day’s eggs. He lunged for her, knife out, and caught her with his elbow as she tried to sidestep at the last second. Two years at this, and she still can’t rightly judge which direction he will move. It doesn’t matter how often they practice, she is never fast enough. Richard can shift like water between rocks, even weighed down by his ridiculous chainmail.

“Cheater,” she hisses, ducking as his knife slices the air beside her face.

“Better to cheat than die.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill you.”

“Only maim?”

The low rambling stone enclosure used for sheltering livestock during bad weather is empty this morning. They circle each other in the dim light, kicking up dust and making benign threats.

Grace lunges forward, but Richard spins away. Only just in time, and her blade glances off the chainmail with a spark.

“I knew you were afraid of me,” she says.

“We’ve been over this. Find a softer target. You cannot pierce iron with a kitchen knife,” he tells her, moving back a step and lowering into a half crouch where he sways from side to side on the balls of his feet. “And I am not afraid of you.”

“Liar.”

“You must stop flattering me, Gráinne. Cheater. Liar. I might have to kiss those honeyed lips if you keep at it.”

“Come that close and you won’t have lips left to kiss with.”

“That isn’t what you said last week,” Richard goads, then wisely flings himself out of the way of her blade.

He has never kissed her. Not on the lips, at least. A peck on the cheek here and there. Once, at the corner of her mouth. Unlike Walter, he doesn’t take what hasn’t been earned. Though Richard threatens to when they fight. It’s distracting. And when he trips her or pins her to a wall, her gaze often drifts to his mouth. Grace cannot help but wonder…

Richard Bourke has a nice mouth.